


Beyond Chivalry

by August_Wright



Series: Beyond [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/August_Wright/pseuds/August_Wright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>MacLeod and Methos belong to DPP; I just enjoyed watching them.</p><p>Thanks to the two Cindys for the beta-read.</p><p>Set, as I think is obvious, immediately after "Chivalry".</p>
    </blockquote>





	Beyond Chivalry

**Author's Note:**

> MacLeod and Methos belong to DPP; I just enjoyed watching them.
> 
> Thanks to the two Cindys for the beta-read.
> 
> Set, as I think is obvious, immediately after "Chivalry".

"Someone had to."

Methos's words echoed in MacLeod's head as he trudged through the sand toward the house, struggling to put his anger and disappointment aside. There were still things to be done. An injured girl, a panicked Richie, fingerprints and tire tracks.

He had left Methos on the beach rather than watch the hated spectacle of the quickening of a former lover, and he tried to shut out the sounds of Methos's painful, ecstatic groans.

*No, someone did not have to,* he thought, his jaw clenched. His heart ached, though that made him angry, too. He had no business grieving for a killer, did he?

Then his heart lurched as he reached the pool area and saw no sign of the girl.

"Maria!" he called.

*Damn, I told Methos to stay with her.*

"Maria!"

He heard sobbing, then found her, a wet coughing lump by the wall. MacLeod took her in his arms, looking around for something to dry her with. *If Methos had stayed with her, Kristin wouldn't be dead.*

"It's okay, Maria. It's okay," he murmured. *How could he do that? How could Methos kill Kristin?* He glimpsed a flash of blue out by the sea and looked away.

MacLeod closed his eyes and bent his face to the wet head of the girl cradled against his chest. He smelled the floral scent of her shampoo beneath the chlorine odor. Why hadn't he stopped it? Kristin had asked him to. Appealed to him for her life …! Where had he found the strength to turn away? Now, not minutes later, he couldn't imagine it. How could he have left a woman to die? *Kristin … I'm sorry. I'm sorry.*

MacLeod found he was rocking Maria, and was snapped back to the present. In his arms he held a living, breathing - well, coughing - woman. An innocent. His guilt gave way to giddy relief. He'd reached her in time. She was all right. He'd saved her.

From Kristin.

"Kristin," the girl managed. "Where …?"

"She's gone. It's okay. Can you walk? We need to get you to a doctor."

"No! Please!" She turned her stricken face to MacLeod and struggled from his grasp, standing. "I just want to go home. Richie …"

"Okay, okay," MacLeod reassured. He kept his grip on her elbow, steadying her. "I'll call Richie. He'll take care of you."

Privately, MacLeod was relieved. She seemed well enough, though that was surprising, considering she'd been completely submerged when they'd reached her. He'd been able to quickly force water from her lungs and restore her breathing, but he'd had to leave her with … oh.

He looked around, feeling the quickening of an immortal approaching. Methos appeared at the edge of the grounds, the sky and sea stormy behind him. For a moment, MacLeod was riveted by the sight. Methos looked like a vision of an ancient storm god risen from the ocean. MacLeod even thought he saw the blue flash of quickening spark near the vision's head, but that couldn't be.

Methos reached the lighted area, and the illusion faded.

"Where's Kristin?" Maria asked, looking at the new arrival. "She drugged me and tried to drown me." Tears began down her cheeks again.

Drugged? She'd have to see a doctor, after all. He'd make sure Richie knew.

"Maria," Methos replied, and the sound of his baritone startled MacLeod for some reason. "Kristin's had a tragic seaside recreational accident." He spoke very seriously.

"She …" Maria looked from one grave face to the other. "Is she … dead?"

"I'm afraid so," answered Methos.

"Oh, thank God!" she exclaimed, and rushed at Methos to throw her arms around him. "Thank you!"

Methos froze at the onslaught, then pushed free of her embrace. MacLeod snorted. Did he think it was an attack?

"Oh, I got you wet," Maria blubbered. "I'm sorry." She backed up and stumbled at the edge of one of the pools. MacLeod was at her side in no time, pulling her to safety.

"Let's not have a repeat performance," he murmured to Maria.

His arm around her shoulders, he turned a reproachful look on the other immortal, only to find him looking sheepish. It was then that MacLeod remembered one of the occasional inconvenient side-effects of a quickening.

Anger flared in him again at Methos, getting off on Kristin's quickening. In his own experience, the reaction was seldom so strong that you couldn't shake it off, after all.

"It's okay," Methos claimed. "I'm already wet. Are you all right?"

As Maria assured them both that she was and repeated that she only wanted to go home, MacLeod saw that Methos was indeed all wet, from head to toe. He had probably taken Kristin's body as far into the surf as he could manage.

How few immortals ever received decent burials, MacLeod mourned. Then his roller-coaster feelings were sorry for his earlier uncharitable thoughts. Methos was wet, cold, and *still* turned on? Fitz, too, had always responded amorously to quickenings. The Englishman's life-long quest for female companionship would jump to the highest priority, and his friends could either follow along or wait for his return.

So Methos would leave now, too. MacLeod was glad. He felt too ambivalently about the man just now.

Driving back to the loft was a silent business. MacLeod was afraid that if he spoke, it would be in recriminations. Methos, soggy in the seat beside him, looked out at the night.

It was late. He'd delivered Maria to Richie's arms, and now MacLeod pondered what to do with Methos. He doubted any of Seacouver's few hotels would have a vacancy this late, but it was possible. Fitz would have packed his bag and been off to the arms of either an old love, a new love, or to the nearest bordello. Methos, though, didn't seem the type to have a girl in every port, and he was a long way from Paris.

It was Methos's problem. Let him worry about what to do. He sighed.

Methos looked over at the sound.

"So, am I still welcome at your place?"

"Of course," MacLeod responded reflexively.

Methos looked back out the window, as silent Seacouver slid by.

*How could I have let him kill her?*

"You couldn't have talked me out of it, you know," Methos said to the window, with uncanny insight.

Startled, MacLeod glanced at the other immortal. "Then I should have stopped you."

"I would have made the challenge more formal. Would you have interfered?"

MacLeod didn't reply. He parked the car, and the two of them entered the dojo.

In the lift, it was difficult not to look at the other man. MacLeod gave up trying, and studied the sharp-featured, five thousand year old visage. So old, he ought to have some wisdom. Well, maybe he did, and MacLeod just wasn't understanding it. He decided to ask.

"Why?" he demanded.

Methos lifted his gaze to look at MacLeod with dark, shining eyes. "Because you weren't going to. Your outmoded sense of chivalry would have let her live and kill again. Eventually she would have found a way to kill you. It doesn't have to happen in fair combat, you know."

MacLeod threw up the grate, and strode into his home. "What do you know about chivalry?" he snapped. "Where were you during this so-called 'Age of Chivalry'?"

Methos exited the lift, brushing by his host. His face had more color than usual. Good, MacLeod thought. Get angry. Let's fight this out.

"Chivalry," MacLeod continued, "isn't about how men treat women. It's about how the strong treat the weak. How anyone with power should treat those without it. And don't try to tell me it doesn't apply anymore. There are always people with power over other people. Bosses, landlords, the rich …"

Methos grasped his sodden sweater and peeled it off over his head. Then he unsnapped and unzipped the fasteners of his jeans, grimacing. MacLeod faltered. Had the man no self-consciousness? He was bulging from his briefs, and seemed unconcerned with whether his host knew it or not.

"Chivalry has as much a place today as it ever did," MacLeod finished weakly.

Methos, wet, tousled, and flushed, stepped out of his jeans and replied. "What you aren't getting, MacLeod, is you were not the one with power in that relationship."

"We didn't have a relationship! I knew what she was!"

"Then how can you think she wasn't a threat?"

"I didn't want her dead."

"Well, I did. Now it's done. I'm going to grab a shower." With that, Methos stripped out of the briefs as well.

MacLeod turned away, and strode to the kitchen. He went about fixing a snack of chicken pasta penne. At least the shower should help the man with his physical reaction to the quickening. That would be a relief to MacLeod, too.

Sitting with his snack at the kitchen island, MacLeod remembered Kristin. He owed her a lot. Her gentle tutelage had turned him into a gentleman, a transformation which had stood him in excellent stead once time and circumstance had forced him from his own time and land. She had shown him how many of the skills and habits he had treasured in the Scottish Highlands had marked him as an uncouth barbarian in most other places. She had taught lovingly, avoiding the condescension which would have angered his ego, and always softening any blows with the gifts of her luscious body.

*And then she thought she owned me.*

He sighed. His memory drifted to how she felt in bed. She was passionate, soft, and warm in all the right places. Her knowledge and enthusiasm for lovemaking was unparalleled, and she was *so* willing to share her expertise. In fact, there was that one thing she loved to do … MacLeod brought his wayward thoughts up short as the pleasant memories began to have their predictable effect on him. He shifted uncomfortably.

Methos was certainly taking his time, he thought. And there his thoughts went, to Methos, in the shower, trying to slough off all that woman's passion. Methos, who hadn't taken a quickening in 200 years. Methos, who even now was probably …

Stop that, MacLeod told himself sternly. And just in time, too. Methos emerged from the bathroom, wearing only black sweat pants, and drying his short, unruly hair with a towel. MacLeod blinked at the sight. Methos toweled his hair with two hands to the side of his head, exactly as if he had long hair pulled to one shoulder. Exactly like Kristin had done. The sight left MacLeod mute. Methos sauntered past MacLeod, who continued to stare at him as he retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, tossed the cap behind the refrigerator and seated himself on the stool next to his host, bringing with him the scent of soap. Was it Kristin's quickening, MacLeod wondered, which made Methos's movements seem sort of … seductive?

"You cut your hair," MacLeod found himself saying.

"Mmhm," Methos agreed, around his beer.

"It looked better before."

Methos placed the cold bottle of beer against his cheek. His face was still flushed from the heat of the shower.

"Shall I grow it long for you, honey?"

Methos put down the beer, took a fork and helped himself to some of MacLeod's pasta. MacLeod didn't object, since he realized he should have offered his guest some.

Methos's hand holding the fork shook.

MacLeod blinked and shook his head, partly to clear it. He seemed to be reacting to a half-naked Methos as if he were a half-naked Kristin. Quickenings could be strange things, he mused.

"So, did the shower help?" he asked.

Methos gave him a searching look. "For a while," he replied.

MacLeod nodded. Sagely, he hoped.

"I thought you might want to leave. But it's late." MacLeod gestured at the couch, Methos's guest bed. "Will you be all right?"

Methos smiled an unembarrassed smile. "I'll be fine."

"All right then. I'm turning in."

Sleep did not come easily. MacLeod was both pleasantly and unpleasantly aware of the other man in his loft. He heard no sounds from Methos which would indicate restful sleep, either. The loft afforded his guest no privacy, so MacLeod imagined Methos lying awake, aroused and frustrated. His own body responded in sympathy, so MacLeod lay awake, aroused and frustrated. Images of Kristin tumbled through his mind, none of them restful, and many of them erotic. These were just his memories of her. How much more powerful an effect must her quickening have?

He heard the creak as the leather of the couch yielded to some movement of Methos's. For a moment, MacLeod imagined himself in Methos's place, stretched full-length on a couch not quite long enough, and unable to move rhythmically, because of the tell-tale creaking. He remembered how one could turn to face the crack between the seat and the back of that couch, and an erect cock could actually slide in just enough to tease, but not enough for the fully required stroking.

His own arousal had mounted, he realized. His breathing was uneven, and he sought his own groin with just a touch of desperation. This was ridiculous, he told himself. He knew many effective meditation techniques for banishing lust, particularly the unfocused kind which ebbed and flooded according to its own mysterious rhythms. There was no point to this.

Unfortunately, while he was giving himself this lecture, his hand had been tending to the needs of his cock, and MacLeod was abruptly faced with some very urgent practicalities. He abandoned the selection of a meditation technique and turned his mind to his options. His own bed was reasonably soundless, he believed, but he wasn't confident of that at the vigorous pounding level which he found himself teetering on the brink of. Once he started, if there was noise, pulling back would be agony.

The couch creaked again, and Methos made some rustling sound. Holding his own breath, MacLeod heard a heavy exhalation from the couch. His forehead grew clammy and he gripped his pulsing cock tightly. He didn't have much time.

The bathroom, an obvious - almost too obvious - haven. MacLeod struggled free of his bedclothes, almost stumbling to the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the light, bringing a harsh reality to his cold, tiled surroundings. The shower. The water would cover any sound. Also, - he twisted the knobs fiercely and gasped as cold water hit him - so long as the shower was going, Methos would know he could safely pursue his own release.

That thought - of Methos furtively masturbating on his couch - quickly countered the shock of the water, rebounding him to his panting, eager state. The water warmed as he gratefully pulled, stroked, pressed, and coaxed his bursting erection. Images of Methos - in the lift, flushed, his swollen lips parted to allow his quickened breathing; his hand actually trembling as he brushed MacLeod's forearm reaching for the pasta; sitting, torso bare, fresh from a shower which had clearly done little to quell the arousal surging through him; eyes dark with lust, fixed on MacLeod, saying "I'll be fine" - tumbled through his mind in the same way his memories of Kristin had earlier.

His pitch could go almost no higher. Distantly, he wondered at his choice of fantasy, but he was in no condition to dictate what erotic stimulation his imagination chose for his treatment. Anything, anything. He was gasping, the now hot water sluicing down his flesh, lapping over his nipples and belly like an eager tongue, loving, laving, … oh God, so close. Just a … pant … few … more … pant … strokes. Pull, pull, thrust. Mouth … Methos's mouth … around … tight … now … now … yes … Oh, God!

MacLeod exploded into the stream of water with wave after wave of ecstasy surging through him. He spent long, blissful moments, leaning one-handed against the wall with the shower head, in the mindless limbo of aftermath, unaware even of the water still spilling over him.

Finally he lifted his head and looked wearily at the tiled wall, blinking. He stopped himself from turning the faucets off, remembering his earlier thought that the running water would give Methos cover, as well. He grinned. *I hope it was good for you too…*

What he couldn't decide, as he stepped out of the running shower, toweled himself off and donned his abandoned pajamas, was how he was going to explain needing a shower in the middle of the night.

He waited a few more minutes before turning off the water and the lights and stepping back out into the chill loft. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, looking in the direction of the couch. He neither saw nor heard anything unusual, and taking deep breaths, he caught no musky scent of sex. If Methos was awake, he said nothing.

MacLeod crept back to bed and slept.

He woke to the smell of eggs frying. Before he opened his eyes, MacLeod allowed himself the painful indulgence of pretending he was waking in the store and Tessa had risen early to make breakfast. He still felt maimed without her - a precious part of him ripped from his flesh forever. He let the fantasy fade away, and knew disquiet for its replacement. He would have to rise and face Kristin's killer.

Kristin's killer was looking sleepy and strangely young. How old was Methos when he first died, MacLeod wondered. He reminded himself to be pleasant.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, automatically, then caught his breath and looked at the other man. Did he have to choose that particular pleasantry? By the light of day, the night's erotic fantasy seemed to him much less mysterious, and now concretely appealing. Well, well.

Methos glanced swiftly at the approaching Highlander, then back at his omelet. He tipped the small pan around for even cooking of the liquid in the eggs, flipped the omelet, then turned the heat down and covered the pan for the final baking.

"Hardly at all," he reported.

"Oh. I didn't really furnish this place thinking of guests," MacLeod said. "That couch isn't long enough, I know …" He stopped himself before he babbled. He opened the refrigerator to bring out the juice, and returned to find Methos looking at him, a smile threatening at his mouth. He still wore the dark sweat pants, but he had added a loose grey knit sweater which he wore with the sleeves pushed up, baring muscular forearms.

"It wasn't the couch," Methos said, now smiling openly, a taunting expression on his face. The moment stretched, a moment when MacLeod knew he needed to say something.

Then it was gone. Methos turned off the burner, removed the lid, and deftly tipped the omelet onto a plate. "This one's yours. I've had mine."

MacLeod hated being tongue-tied. Even Kristin had observed that he tended to become very direct if he felt disadvantaged.

"Look," he demanded, gesturing at Methos's crotch, which he only now allowed himself to look at, and, sure enough, it was still bulging, "are you going to do anything about that? Because I don't like having you around here horny with Kristin's quickening."

Methos was not in the least bit thrown by MacLeod's directness, just as he hadn't been during their sparring session yesterday. In fact, his riposte just about bowled MacLeod over.

"I was expecting, as a good host, that you'd help me out with it."

"You want me to pimp for you," MacLeod managed to parry.

"No." Methos didn't press his advantage by explaining what he did want. He'd used that tactic in the spar, too. MacLeod knew what he meant, he just couldn't quite believe it. He also knew how to focus in a fight, and not let shock or anger distract him, so he accepted this information like an incoming lunge, and dealt with it.

"Well, you're wrong. I'm not that chivalrous."

"Damn," Methos joked, but he didn't hide his disappointment. He turned to the sink and washed and dried his hands.

MacLeod's thoughts reeled as he watched Methos move around his loft. Methos wanted him?! Methos? MacLeod had been wanted before, frequently by men, though it had taken him a little time to learn to recognize male desire.

Methos found his travel bag, and stepped out of his sweat pants, his back to his host.

In fact, MacLeod remembered, it had been Kristin who had first told him, with a pleased smirk of pride, of a wealthy male acquaintance who had shown distinct interest in her burly Highland gentleman. MacLeod had responded with shock and denial - even some anger. Okay, he admitted, a lot of anger.

Methos produced some jeans and squirmed into them, then slipped his bare feet into a pair of boat shoes.

Kristin had seen his physical attractiveness as a tool and a weapon. Hers. MacLeod had had to wait until after he'd left her, to learn how to deflect a man's romantic or sexual interest, or how to rebuff it gently, in ways that resulted in neither a duel nor a broken heart. Not causing pain was a worthless skill, in Kristin's view.

Methos drew a comb through his short hair, taming it, then shoved the comb into his back pocket. He tugged at one pant leg.

Except for some desperate, dismal moments in the army and shipboard, MacLeod had never been tempted to experiment with sleeping with men. Women were always abundant, appealing, and … normal. Besides, he disliked being an amateur.

*I suppose everyone's an amateur to Methos.*

Methos zipped up his travel bag.

In fact, Methos remained a fascinating enigma to MacLeod, even as he stood before him, a flesh and blood myth, putting on his coat … Putting on his coat?

"Methos, wait. Where are you going?"

Methos turned an irritated expression on the Highlander. "This is a port city, MacLeod; I assume they have docks."

"The docks?! No, Methos …"

How to say this? MacLeod stared, helpless. The chameleon-like creature standing before him, who claimed to care only for himself, waited tensely for MacLeod to finish. MacLeod wanted him to stay. He even wanted …

The atmosphere between them suddenly suffused with sexual need. MacLeod had known the feeling countless times, but never with a man. It was exhilarating. He had to keep Methos here.

Methos swallowed and shifted his weight, a wholly uncharacteristic fidget, which reminded the Highlander of his guest's condition. His guest …

"Spit it out, Duncan. I'm not waiting much longer." Methos undoubtedly intended his words to be severe, but MacLeod heard desperation. He also shivered at the sound of his Christian name on the other man's lips. Oh, yeah, he wanted this.

"Methos, I want you to stay. I'm prepared to be a better host." His own voice sounded strangled, to him. Almost fearful, he watched the other man's reaction.

Methos frowned. "You are," he replied, sounding skeptical.

MacLeod took two steps toward the skittish ancient immortal, to within dueling distance, though he stopped short of the other man's personal space.

Methos took in a deep breath as MacLeod neared. His pale complexion was again flushed.

"Yes, I am," MacLeod replied, and he meant it. His heart was pounding.

Methos regarded the Highlander in stillness. Then he moistened his lips and said, "Duncan, you know what it is I need." It was both question and warning.

MacLeod took a step closer, to where he could see Methos's eyes darken. "Yes, I do. Please stay."

Methos shut his eyes and shuddered, shuttering away an expression which almost looked like delight. The ruddy color drained from his face, and he sagged.

Alarmed, MacLeod caught him under the arm, but Methos regained his footing and shrugged away. Two steps took the other immortal to the armchair, which he dropped into, his head in his hands.

"You okay?" This was not the reaction MacLeod had expected.

Methos snorted. "Yeah. Just dizzy."

*Dizzy? Jesus.*

MacLeod was at the refrigerator and back, in a flash. Methos accepted the beer, still pale. He waggled it and set it down.

"MacLeod, this isn't what I need. Come here and kiss me." Methos tipped his head back, resting it on the back of the chair, and regarded MacLeod from half-closed eyes. His neck, MacLeod noticed, was long and smooth, and inviting. He knew another tremor of excitement. *Kiss him?*

The Highlander rested one hand on Methos's shoulder and bent down and kissed him on the forehead. He found he still needed to work up some courage for more than that.

"Hey!" protested Methos.

"Those jeans must be killing you," MacLeod stalled.

"Yes, they are. Get them off me."

"Bossy."

"MacLeod." Methos reached up and grasped a fistful of MacLeod's pajamas. "You have the power, here. I expect some chivalry."

MacLeod looked into the darkened, desperate eyes of his friend, and noticed again his own racing heart. He moved around the chair to within reach of Methos's jeans, but before he touched the other man, he said, "I thought you didn't approve of chivalry."

"Dammit, MacLeod!" Some of Methos's control snapped, and he tore at his own jeans feverishly. "Obviously it has its uses!" His jeans open, Methos jerked to free himself from the denim. The front of his briefs was very damp. He exhaled with relief.

MacLeod smiled, his momentary hesitation evaporating. He loved winning a fight. He slid over the arm of the armchair, forcing a startled Methos to give him some room, then, pressing his thigh over Methos's lanky leg, he loomed over the other man, and kissed him.

MacLeod paid a lot of attention to the kiss. He considered himself something of a virtuoso at the art, and truly kissing another man was new to him. Careful to avoid touching Methos's overheated groin area, he stroked one hand along the denim-clad thigh, and used the other to ghost feather-light touches over Methos's jaw.

Methos's lips were thin, but, pressing past them, MacLeod tasted … tasted … he had only associations tumble though his mind. Dark wood and cask-aged rum. Allspice and chateaubriand. Campfire smoke and venison.

Beneath him, Methos groaned at the kiss. He spread his already splayed legs in invitation. MacLeod sensed before he saw, that Methos had dived his hand under his own briefs to stroke his cock, the pressure undoubtedly both a relief and a torment. Again, MacLeod's own body responded in sympathy, hardening beneath the silk of his pajamas. Methos would feel that too, against his leg.

Before MacLeod could take charge of Methos's hand, Methos himself removed it from his briefs and slid it along MacLeod's neck. At first MacLeod assumed he would stroke his hair - he'd had few lovers who weren't fascinated by his hair when he wore it long - but Methos cupped his palm right into the back of MacLeod's neck, his thumb caressing his throat. MacLeod shuddered under the stimulation, and broke the kiss to look at the man beneath him.

"How did you know" he gasped, "about my neck?"

Methos's face was alive with passion and restraint. MacLeod had never imagined seeing the man like this. The oldest living immortal tipped his head back and rolled it on the back of the chair, then regarded the Highlander with an exhausted expression.

"I've never" he panted, "met an immortal," pant "who wasn't sensitive," pant "about the neck."

Interesting. MacLeod filed that information away, but had no desire to check it against his own experiences. Later. This had stopped being a curious exercise. He couldn't believe how appealing Methos's passion was to him. He couldn't believe how that thumb on his throat was arousing him.

"Enough," he managed. He pulled away and stood. "Bed," he ordered, looking down at the vulnerable man before him. He could feel the heat in his face.

Methos was on his feet and shedding his jeans in a moment.

MacLeod reached for his own pajama bottoms, but Methos seized his wrist.

"Silk is good," he said, shaking his head.

Whatever. MacLeod was in no mood to discuss it. He steered them both toward the bed.

As they both burrowed into the bedcovers, MacLeod knew another moment of reservation. Leaping onto the bed felt like play, an appropriate activity to be doing with another man, but MacLeod's lascivious intentions were … wrong to do with a man. He frowned. *Who says?* he demanded of that inner programming. He heard no answer.

"Mac?" Methos queried.

MacLeod snapped out of it and smiled at the man next to him. "Hmm?"

"I want … I need you to be sure you're ready for this."

MacLeod rolled his eyes, then grabbed Methos's hand, and brought it to his crotch. His erection, while not at the bursting point, was well past where he could will it away easily. The touch of the other man's hand, even through the pajamas, was electrical. MacLeod tried to stifle his gasp.

Methos half-lidded his eyes in response, and began an enthusiastic stroking and kneading through the silk.

"I am no blushing virgin, you know," MacLeod managed to say. The words sounded distant to him; the sound was muffled by the sudden rushing in his ears. He needed more, and he needed it urgently. Confident that Methos was at least as bad off, he started to roll on top of him, only to be stopped by Methos's hands on his chest. "What?" he gasped.

As if apologizing for their trespass, Methos's hands began caressing MacLeod's torso, snaking through the button seam to find bare skin. "I'm… afraid …of … scaring you off," confessed Methos, an embarrassed expression on his flushed face.

MacLeod grinned, his reservations evaporating again. "Then I'll just have to torment you until you decide to decide I'm ready," he whispered into Methos's ear.

Methos groaned, eyes closed. He threw his arms around MacLeod and pressed into his side. His briefs were gone, so his naked body rubbed against MacLeod longingly. He didn't object this time, as MacLeod rolled on top of him.

The flush on Methos's face, MacLeod saw, extended down his exquisite throat and into his muscular torso. *Sensitive about the neck, huh?* MacLeod slid his fingers around the sides of Methos's neck. Methos gasped and began bucking desperately.

"MacLeod, no!"

"Okay, okay," MacLeod grinned again, but stilled his fingers and hips. He waited while Methos recovered some shred of control, drinking in the sight of 5000 year old lust. He couldn't hold off long, however, and soon was rubbing his groin against Methos's bare abdomen. Methos's skin was mostly hairless, and not as soft as it looked. His cock - MacLeod allowed himself to regard it truly for the first time - was flushed and pulsing, with fluid weeping from the tip in visible dribbles. "You are so about-to-come," he teased, somewhat awed. Had he been in that state, any touch, anywhere, would have sent him over the edge. Considering it heightened his own arousal yet another notch.

"Have been for half a day now," Methos panted.

God. MacLeod leaned down and kissed him long and hard. Poor Methos.

Methos moaned and squirmed, but somehow didn't come. He pulled MacLeod's pajama bottoms down with an expert yank, and caressed the Highlanders muscled cheeks. But he held his own hips rigid.

MacLeod's hips, however, were moving of their own accord. Methos's hands on his butt would dive between his legs to tease his balls unexpectedly from behind. It had MacLeod right on the edge of utter violence. He had to break the kiss and slide down, just out of reach of those fingers.

"But you're still holding back," he accused when he could focus again.

"Don't want it over too soon," Methos managed. His eyes were squeezed shut, but a smile curved his swollen lips.

"Why not? We could go again."

Methos's eyes snapped open. Black with desire, they looked extraordinarily intent. "You think?" he asked.

Uh oh. This was it. The old are-we-serious-or-just-screwing-around moment. Damn it; couldn't he have waited until after? Duncan was not concentrating on anything much above the pelvis.

"Methos, what do you think this is?" Not a brilliant approach, but he couldn't think very well.

"I don't know," answered the world's oldest immortal, with apparent sincerity. "First-aid for a guest?"

Damn and damn. Nothing about Methos's tone or expression indicated whether he thought that was a good or bad thing. MacLeod would just have to ask.

"What do you want it to be?"

"Uh uh. No chivalry. I'm not telling. What do *you* want?"

*I want to fuck, fuck, fuck.* MacLeod closed his eyes, but that only made more vivid his mental images of the two of them grinding, grinding … God!"

"What if," pant, "I pick wrong?"

"Duncan," Methos's voice was somehow smooth, conversational, and utterly gentle. Once again, the use of his Christian name made MacLeod shiver. "You can't pick wrong."  
No. He wasn't going to screw this up by speaking when his brain was blood-starved. Chivalry be damned. He had the power and he was going to use it.

MacLeod ghosted his fingers over Methos's neck, his heart pounding when he saw the man's eyes widen in alarm. "This is what I want," he murmured into Methos's throat, still caressing.

Methos moaned, the pitch of his voice rising in desperation. With one pass of his hand over his own cock, Methos was slick enough to coat MacLeod's near-bursting erection. He turned into the Highlander, roughly pulling MacLeod to him. Their cocks, to MacLeod's relief and delight, slid securely into the crevasse between groin and thigh, matching like yin and yang. Methos forced his knee between MacLeod's legs, wrapped his arms around the Highlander's broad back, and began riding him for all he was worth.

The rhythm was familiar, the slapping together was not. It was exquisite, pounding and pressing in the same action. MacLeod finally let himself go … pounding, pounding, thrusting, thrusting.

Methos came first, with an ecstatic cry. Shuddering blissfully in MacLeod's arms, his body grew slick with cum in the front, and slick with sweat in the back. Watching Methos's transported expression, MacLeod knew again that powerful effect of imagining what the other man was feeling. He was wracked with orgasm almost before he knew it was coming. Coming, coming …

Gradually MacLeod became aware again of the world around him. The blankets and sheets were soft and luxurious against his skin, as was the silk pajama top he still wore. The bottoms, he came to realize, were around his ankles. The furnace kicked on with a comforting rumble.

One arm was comfortable on Methos's warm, smooth back. Methos also lay face down in the pillows, his short hair spiked at a funny angle. MacLeod actually felt the moment when Methos's skin cooled to the point where his sweat made him chilly. MacLeod scooped his arm down and pulled up the covers. Methos sighed.

"Have you learned your lesson?" the oldest immortal murfled into a pillow, his eyes still closed.

"What lesson?"

"I was going to put my sword to your throat and lecture you about taking strange immortals into your bed."

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious." Still Methos neither moved nor opened his eyes.

"You are not a strange immortal."

*That* opened Methos's eyes. "Oh, Duncan, I'm very strange. And any immortal is too strange to trust in bed. Let that be a lesson to you." He lifted one index finger, of the hand resting on the pillows, in admonition.

MacLeod snuggled under the blankets, his own skin cool, now. "Uh, Methos, you didn't do that."

"Damn. Knew I forgot something." Methos inched into MacLeod's warmth. MacLeod hugged the man to him, feeling blissfully happy.

"Do you feel more able to deal with the commitment question now?" Methos murmured. So much for feeling happy. MacLeod hugged Methos more tightly, in a forlorn attempt to protect him from hurt, if hurt this be.

"Methos, I think I want it to be first-aid."

"Okay," Methos replied. MacLeod still couldn't tell if he'd picked right or wrong.

Methos slid his hand up MacLeod's chest, the unbuttoned pajamas no impediment, as he glided over one nipple. "Duncan, I may need more first-aid."

"I have a whole kit. Just no swords, okay?"

Methos looked at him with an earnest expression which MacLeod couldn't mistake for anything but love. "Duncan, you are unfortunately, completely safe with me."

Duncan smiled, and kissed him. So he'd picked wrong. *First-aid, my ass.*


End file.
